Johnny Blaze walked to the twisted, still-smoldering bike. It didn’t transform back. It didn’t need to.
The Rider drove one burning hand into Roarke’s chest. Not to kill. To curse . For every soul Roarke had stolen, the Rider seared a brand of living fire onto the devil’s immortal heart—a wound that would never heal, a pain that would follow him through every disguise, every century, every hell he crawled back from. ghost rider spirit of vengeance 2012
Johnny didn’t flinch at the name. Roarke. The devil had many names, but that one tasted like ash on the tongue. Johnny Blaze walked to the twisted, still-smoldering bike
Moreau helped him up. “The boy?”
The road east of Chișinău was a scar of cracked asphalt and frozen mud. Johnny Blaze sat astride a stolen dirt bike, the engine’s rattle a poor substitute for the hellfire V8 that lived under his skin. He wore a hoodie, not leather. He hadn’t smiled in months. The Rider was a caged animal inside him, starved and pacing. Johnny fed it just enough rage to keep it from breaking the door down entirely. The Rider drove one burning hand into Roarke’s chest
Roarke smiled wider. “Or what? You’ll damn me? I am damnation, Rider. You are my fire. My tool. My—"
“You did well,” the Rider whispered, Johnny’s voice echoing beneath the gravel. “But don’t mistake me for a friend.”